142 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. JAMES H. ASHABRANNER. BORN: NEW ALBANY, IND., DEC. 31, 1861. BROUGHT up on a farm, at eighteen years of age James was apprenticed for one year to the blacksmith's trade, subsequently teaching school for about five years. He was then JAMES H. ASHABRANNER. elected assistant secretary of the Y. M. C. A., and is now city librarian of the public library in his native town. His poems have appeared from time to time in the Current, Toledo Blade, and other periodicals. MUTABILITY. How soon the joys which we have known, For which he flings the old away. But to the gray-haired children too, A toy appears of fair design, Until replaced by something new. And friends to whom we said, adieu, And wept to clasp the parting hand Fade from the memory, like the hue Of words engraven on the sand. The vows that made the parting sweet, And love that we regard as true And yet I deem it well, that such And oh, the past! the silent past! What shudders seize the maddened brain, When scarce we dare to think, at last The past might come to light again. For deeply buried in the dust, Are secrets that we fain would keep. Their tombs we guard with sacret trust Till we, with them, lie down to sleep. SONG OF SUMMER TIME. The fields are bright with the golden grain, Sweet and low is the hum of bees, And the hum of the reaper's tune, Deep in the shade of the beechen grove, Silent and grand with a lurid glow, AMOR FATUM VINCIT. I witnessed, last night, in a vision, And wend through celestial groves. As fashioned by destiny's might, LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. NELLIE CORINNE BERGEN. BORN: DELANCO, N. J., OCT. 14, 1868. WHEN a child Nellie lived in Washington and Philadelphia, and at four years of age came to East Saginaw, where she has lived ever since. Graduating in 1887 from the high school, she continued her studies for one year NELLIE CORINNE BERGEN. at St. Clair, Michigan. Miss Bergen has made elocution one of her principal studies, and has appeared at several private concerts as Parthenia in Ingomar. Her poems have appeared in several prominent papers, and have received favorable mention from the press and public generally. CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES. I'd rather a hundred times Sit here and drub and write, As wealth puts on your head; Imposes. Better far, To live, unknown by name, Than be sought after, times When you for rest most long, For autograph, or theme, On which to write a song! Here do I sit all day, And none so poor to seek My hiding place secure. Yes, here from week to week, I sit, and none molest; Should take each poem I write, This little room would be Not large enough by far; I'd have to move up-town, run down" on the car. And 143 THE YELLOW ROSE. The yellow rose,-I have it now; The rose I sent my love! The beauteous rose once wet with dew, The rose I sent my love! The petals fine were emblems true, Oh love I bore to her, The tender flower a token true, And here it is all faded now, She sent it back to me: STELLA, MY STAR. Oh Stella, my star, bright star, Say where are you shining to-night? If I, by my heart, could tell, To you would I wing my flight. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 144 The cold snow covers the ground, The trees are lonely and bare, But I am lonelier still, And pining for you, my fair! Oh love, how the night winds sigh! To think that my darling's alone. That Stella, the star of my life, Should be weeping and sighing alone; For this do I rival the wind, In making a heavier moan. But why do I try with a pen, To picture the depth of my grief? Our parting will only be brief. Oh Stella, my star- bright star. Oh the grave is cold and still, Where dead love lies; where dead love lies. Oh the grave is damp and cold, Where dead love lies; where dead love And the rose-leaves idly flutter, Oh my heart is cold and empty, Now love is dead, now love is dead. And the twilight shadows come, THE LAND OF SOMEWHERE. Afar in the land of Somewhere, The roses must be blooming; Afar in the land of Somewhere, Afar in the land of Somewhere, The people do no deceiving; And oh for this land of Somewhere, 'Tis ever that I am grieving. And deep in the land of Somewhere, Fond Love to me is crying: Alas? for this land of Somewhere, I ever, forever, am sighing. MRS. FANNY M. LEONARD. BORN: CHESTERFIELD, N. H., JULY 14, 1821. MRS. LEONARD has written poems for the press for a number of years under the nom de plume of Sylvia. Many of these poems | were written for anniversary gatherings, weddings, sabbath schools, and dialogues for exhibitions. She has now in her possession nearly one hundred dialogues in manuscript, some of which have been published. THE LITTLE BOUQUET. To speak in a language its own, A cardinal flower likewise, An iris with red half-blown rose; I would wreathe them with woodbine, so nice With little white pinks, in repose. A bed of green holly should be Without one unoccupied seat. GUY E. ETHERTON. BORN: JACKSON CO., ILL., APRIL 4, 1872. ALTHOUGH yet a young man, Guy has written quite a few poems that have received "Twas not his wish, before, to know God's holy will divine; Abide by it while here below, And heavenward incline. He would not see in nature's art The great Creator's hand, Nor know the grandeur of the part Man holds within the land. GUY E. ETHERTON. publication. He is now teaching school at Grand Tower, Illinois. HIS PERCEPTION. He sits at his window, watching the sun A man, whose years are numbering more Are wanted to bring him to four score, White is his beard, as is his hair, And clearly can be seen The many furrowed lines of care Upon his rigid mien. While musing on the dying day, With aged, wand'ring mind, One serious thought then steals its way He thinks of all his ill-spent life And now, while in declining life, GLOOM. Oft, as along the road of life Where darkness, strife and happiness There comes a time In every clime, When life is dull and gray. A dreary gloom steals o'er the soul- The gloom's increase, All joy and pleasant thoughts are lost; We feel no more like one Whose life is joy and merriment - But sad and lone, And wretched grown, We wish our life were done. In deep despair we sit us down, And 'gainst the window-pane We rest our head and watch the eve, Funeral, somber, wane, While sore within We then begin To feel the doleful pain. Sweet memory! True daughter of the mind; Through which each scene of unregained years In accurate reality appears. And as we look upon those scenes once more, As memory to our mind recalls some phrase MRS. CATHERINE RYNDER. BORN: MILESBURG, PA., MAY 30, 1851. MARRIED in 1872 to Hon. Theodore P. Rynder, this lady commenced writing for the press six years later, and has edited several newspapers. She is a constant contributor to the local papers on political, social, religious and humorous topics, and has also written a number of short stories. In person she is a blonde and petite, and is now residing in her native town with her husband and two sons. MUSTERED OUT. A soldier of the union Lay dying-not of years: There was sound of children sobbing, There were floods of falling tears; And a slight form knelt beside him, As his life fast ebbed away, And bent in sorrowing silence, To hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered As he took that loved one's hand; To a new, a better land; And I thought 'twould have been better We've known so little, Mary. Of life's comforts or its joys; And I leave you nothing, darling, But these helpless little boys; While of those who shunned the conflict Many revel now in wealth, Are spared to live their life's full span And blessed with strength and health. We broke the black man's fetters- Heaven help you, Mary darling, For the arm of flesh has failed, Bless the stars and stripes forever, To the mast securely nailed; Bless the boys who're tottering downward Halting not this side the grave; Bless the union ---one, unsevered --Which their valor only saved. THE SOLDIER AT HOME. Wrapped in the flag he so nobly defended, Laid to his rest by his comrades in blue; His a devotion known only to heroes, His the reward of the brave and the true. Ah! the shrines that we deck, how they multiply ever, From the army which once shook the earth with its tread. As the feet that trod out our fair Nation's pollution Now march but to follow the comrade that's dead." Round the camp fire of Heaven they meet in reunion The unknown" are there with the "miss ing" who've come To join in the peace jubilee everlasting |